


Everything and Nothing

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Jagged Edges [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bottom Iron Bull, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Sort of? - Freeform, Top Cullen Rutherford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6816517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They want different things tonight, but that doesn't mean they can't both get what they need.</p>
<p>Or: a BDSM love poem.</p>
<p>(An interstitial for "Jagged Edges," though I'm pretty sure this makes sense without having read that. Also 85% less angsty!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything and Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meelah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meelah/gifts).



> For Meelah, because she beta'd 60,000 words across five stories in two weeks. What else needs to be said? Except maybe that I thought I didn't need a beta, but I was wrong. *blows kisses*

Cullen glances at the sky as he lets Zevran out the door, unsure if he's more amazed that it's still mostly dark or that it's getting light at all. It's been a strange night, one of those that feels like it lasted for a blink and an eternity all at the same time, and his body is still alive with undirected energy.

Too much energy, really, and he slams the bolt home harder than he intended, hard enough that it digs painfully into his hand when it can't slide any farther. The ache helps to center him, though, and he pauses for a moment, drawing in a deep breath to gather his control. It needs as much help as he can give it right now, after so long with Zevran twisting against him, silent except for his hoarse breathing as the cane fell again and again. Even after the cane was put away, having a warm body between his knees didn't make control easy, and Cullen stands facing the door for longer than he should, just breathing.

When he turns at last, Bull is still sitting in the chair by the bench, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest and a faint smile on his face. It's an expression Cullen knows fools everyone except Krem, from the Inquisitor to the Chargers.

Maybe Cullen can't read everyone, and maybe he would never have known anything was wrong with Zevran if Bull hadn't pointed out the signs, but if there's one person Cullen _can_ read without effort, it's Bull. And while Cullen is glad he could give Zevran what he needed, glad to be able to repay some small portion of the debt he owes for Kinloch Hold, a part of him hates how much it took out of Bull. The assault on Adamant wasn't easy, and the Chargers bore their share of it. They have to carry the weight of their dead now, the same as everyone else, and whatever weight the Chargers carry, Bull will always carry most of it.

He didn't really need another burden, not now, not when his mouth still draws tight at the word Tal-Vashoth.

Cullen takes a step toward him, and Bull's gaze meets his, asking desperately for something he can't voice aloud. Even the question itself is there and gone in the space of a breath, replaced by the casual confidence Bull wears every bit as easily as Cullen does, but that brief glance is all Cullen needs.

It feeds the heat already running just under the surface of his skin, and before Bull can do more than gather himself to stand, Cullen is across the room, a hand on each horn to force Bull's head down until his chin is almost to his chest. For a moment, Bull fights back, the muscles in his neck and jaw straining as he struggles against himself as much as Cullen, and then his shoulders slump in surrender.

"Watchword?" Cullen asks, relaxing his grip enough to allow Bull to speak.

"Katoh." Bull shivers, his skin pebbling as if he's cold. Hands still on Bull's horns, Cullen feels an echo of that shiver in his own body, and cold certainly isn't what he's feeling.

He steps away, releasing Bull's horns, and Bull stays put, head hanging and shoulders bowed forward. There's a thrill to it Cullen would never be able to explain to anyone else, to seeing Bull hand over control to him like this. It's also terrifying, knowing how badly he could fuck this up, but he learned how to set that aside long before Bull. Recruits--whether templar or Inquisition--have an eye for weakness, and no mercy at all.

"Stand," he says, keeping his voice flat and emotionless despite the excitement once again stirring in his chest. It's the same excitement he felt seeing Zevran on his knees, only more so, because Bull was always the one ultimately in charge of Zevran.

Bull stands, rising slowly from his chair without raising his chin from his chest or his gaze from the floor. He's taller than Cullen even with his head bent, but Cullen doesn't let that bother him, not when submission is written in every line of Bull's body.

"Go into the bedroom," Cullen says, and he has to bite back a smile. Calling the tiny room a bedroom is a more than a little generous, but Bull knows what he means. "Take off your clothes and wait for me."

Bull doesn't even nod, just turns and walks away, and likewise, Cullen doesn't look after him, absolutely sure Bull will do as he was told. Whether Bull wants to is irrelevant, so long as Cullen carries himself like no other possibility exists. Something else he learned long before he met Bull and long before he could admit to himself how deep the satisfaction ran, watching people give way to him like this.

It's more than satisfaction inside him now, the way he feels listening to the whisper of cloth and clink of metal as Bull undresses in the other room, though after an entire day without sleep, Cullen's body is a little slow to respond. He presses his hand over his cock, rubbing it through his pants as he thinks again of Zevran on his knees, of Bull with the cane in his hand, of Bull with his head bowed under the weight of Cullen's hands.

It occurs to him to wonder if either Bull or Zevran has realized how much alike they are, but Cullen pushes that away before it has time to settle. This isn't about Zevran anymore.

The sounds from the bedroom have stopped. Cullen closes his eyes and thinks of Bull standing naked in the center of the room, head bowed obediently, waiting for whatever order Cullen chooses to give. It sends another shock of heat through him, and he concentrates on that, on his body and Bull's submission, not on how long it's been since he last slept.

A quick glance to be sure the door is bolted, then Cullen unlaces his pants and wraps his hand around his cock. He keeps his strokes light, aware of time passing but also aware that he needs to make Bull wait for him. Over and over, he takes himself right up to the edge only to back off right before the end. The point is to keep his body interested, focused on the right need, not to spend himself in his hand like he's fifteen again.

When grey light is just beginning to creep under the door, Cullen gives himself one last stroke, then presses his cock flat to his belly and does up his laces again. It hides exactly nothing, not with the head of his cock higher than the waist of his pants, but hiding it isn't the point.

In the bedroom, he doesn't even glance in Bull's direction as he crosses the room to kneel beside the chest that holds his personal belongings. A chest he keeps locked not because it contains anything difficult to replace but because there are some rumors he doesn't particularly want circulating. Soldiers want a commander with presence, someone who _commands_ , but they still shy away from one who gets hard at the thought of ordering them to their knees.

The manacles are cold and heavy, the iron smooth under his fingers as he digs them out from the bottom of the chest. He keeps his movements slow and deliberate, letting the chain rattle against itself to be sure Bull knows what he has before he stands.

Not that Bull is looking at him: his head is bowed, his eye on the floor, exactly as he should be, and he doesn't look up even when Cullen says, "Sit on the edge of the bed." He just turns and does as he's told, folding himself down onto the low cot that takes up most of one wall. The frame creaks under his weight, a reminder of why they never sleep on it together.

"Hands in front," Cullen says briskly. He usually locks Bull's hands behind his back, but for this, Cullen wants him to have a little bit of freedom.

Bull presents his hands, palms up and wrists a few inches apart, and doesn't resist when Cullen pushes his head back so his horns are pointed up. His eye is already closed, and while there have been times when Cullen would punish even that much initiative, he's glad for it now. After the night they've had, it's easier on both of them if Cullen doesn't have to control his face as well as his voice and his body. Bull wants to let go for a while, and Cullen needs to be sure that every word and every touch says, _You are nothing._ It doesn’t matter that it’s a lie, so long as Cullen maintains the illusion.

Cullen's thoughts again drift toward Zevran before he jerks them back into line. Now more than ever he needs to be entirely here, mind and body both, aware of every twitch of Bull's skin and every pause in his breathing.

The manacles close easily around Bull's wrists, and the sight of dark iron against grey skin is enough to ensure Cullen's attention doesn't wander again. It leaves him breathless, makes him want so desperately his hands are almost shaking, and he pauses for a moment just to gather his control again.

"Hands down," he says. "Keep them down."

They've done this enough that he doesn't need to add, "Or this ends." The threat--and the promise--can stand unspoken as Bull props his elbows on his thighs and links his fingers together between his knees.

Hands steady again, Cullen unlaces his pants with one while two fingers of the other shove between Bull's teeth, forcing his mouth open and pressing down on his tongue. Cullen lingers there, fingers sliding in and out between Bull's lips, widening the space between them without giving Bull any control over it. Bull's skin is covered in goosebumps, and his throat works as he swallows hard.

He doesn't fight as Cullen maneuvers his head into position using his horns as handles, and he doesn't so much as twitch when Cullen's cock slides between his lips. Looking down at him, Cullen almost forgets himself enough to stroke his cheek, but he catches the gesture in time and turns it into a more forceful grab for Bull's chin, pushing his mouth open a little wider.

But oh, watching him is almost as good as fucking his mouth, the way he holds himself in position, taking the entire length of Cullen's cock without choking. He's not capable of kneeling for any length of time, not with his bad knee, but Cullen has learned that sometimes, the physical position is the least important piece of this. Cullen holds him in place by his horns, and Bull doesn't try to resist, or even move anywhere except where Cullen moves him.

Cullen's hips pick up speed, snapping forward faster. All that time spent teasing himself earlier has left him on the edge, and Bull kneeling to him in every way that matters is pushing him closer _fast_. His fingers flex on Bull's horns, holding his head in place for each thrust, the obscene wet sounds the most beautiful thing he's ever heard, until Bull gives a barely audible groan and Cullen's entire body arches, his head falling back as he spills in Bull's mouth.

He barely stays standing afterward, his grip on Bull's horns the only thing that keeps him upright. There's a long, dizzy pause as Cullen works on not falling over, every muscle and bone in his body turned to liquid, but eventually, he unlocks both his knees and his grip on Bull's horns. A quick cough to clear his throat, then he says, "Good," in the same brisk, impersonal tone he's used all night.

Bull's cock is hard between his thighs, but Cullen ignores it deliberately. "Hands in front," he says.

There's a fractional pause before Bull does as ordered, and Cullen says nothing, though he knows the reason for that hesitation. Rather than offer reassurance, he waits as if it would never occur to him that Bull might disobey, and once Bull extends his hands, Cullen loops his fingers through the manacles instead of unlocking them. "Lie down."

The tension that's crept back into Bull's shoulders relaxes, and he lets Cullen control his upper body so that he doesn't simply fall onto the cot, which creaks alarmingly but holds. Flat on his back with his hands folded on his chest and his eye still closed, he looks like he's already asleep.

Cullen drapes a blanket over him, then adds another for good measure. It's tempting to lie down on top of him, to pull the blankets over both of them and just sleep through the entire day, but even if the cot would hold their combined weight, that isn't what Bull needs from him tonight. So...

"Sleep," he says.

Bull sinks deeper into the cot without speaking, and Cullen nods, satisfied.

###

Sleeping in his armor doesn't get any more comfortable as he gets older, and his chair was never designed to be restful. He naps more than anything, jerking awake at every sound, until he gets enough sleep that discomfort outweighs exhaustion.

He works on the never-ending stacks of correspondence on his desk, and he talks with the few people dedicated enough to trek out to this corner of Adamant, and he sends his assistant off with various orders. One of those orders eventually results in a pot of tea delivered to his office, still hot from the kitchens, and once its bearer has gone away again, Cullen bolts his office door and goes to wake Bull.

Bull's eye is open before Cullen even steps into the bedroom, and though he looks as tired as Cullen feels, it isn't the same kind of tired from before. His smile is just a smile, not a mask to hide that desperate need to be free of himself for a little while.

"Good morning," Cullen says as he helps Bull up to sit on the edge of the cot.

"Is it?"

"Still morning?" Cullen asks as he lifts Bull's hands to begin working on the manacles. "Unfortunately, yes."

"Unfortunately?"

"Unfortunately," Cullen says. He removes the cuffs, bringing Bull's hands up to kiss each palm before he adds, with his mouth still against Bull's skin, "I wanted to let you sleep a while longer."

"I'm surprised Krem hasn't broken down the door yet." Under the amusement, Bull's voice is rough from sleep, and again Cullen wants to just crawl into bed with him. Surely the world can solve its own problems for one day.

Recent events would indicate otherwise, though, so Cullen sets that aside and steps back. "Come out when you're ready?" An invitation rather than an order now.

"Won't be long," Bull says. He begins to unfold himself from the cot, moving as if his joints pain him. Halfway up, he pauses and looks meaningfully at Cullen hovering beside him.

There are no words needed. Cullen smiles ruefully and leaves him to it, returning to the paperwork currently trying to swallow his desk.

When Bull finally emerges from the bedroom, Cullen is halfway through the morning's requisitions from his senior officers and giving serious consideration to the relative merits of requiring them to practice their handwriting before he goes blind. A headache is already starting behind one eye, and he's not entirely sure he's holding the current page right way up.

"You could make them give their reports in person," Bull says with annoying cheerfulness as he closes the bedroom door behind himself.

"I could," Cullen allows as he stands, glad to set the paper aside for now. "If I didn't want to get anything else done today."

Bull grins at him, and that does more for Cullen's headache than anything. He shoves the papers into a stack, leaving a clear space wide enough for Bull to sit, and while Bull settles there, Cullen pours tea into a large mug. With the sun up, it's really too hot to drink anything that steams, but this is their ritual, and that alone is soothing.

Maybe Bull feels it, too, because he says nothing when Cullen offers him the mug, just cradles it in both hands like he actually wants the heat. Perched on the desk as he is, his legs are far enough apart for Cullen to stand between his knees, his own hands holding Bull's face much the way Bull holds the mug. For a moment, Bull leans the full weight of his head into Cullen's hands, and Cullen rests his forehead on the place where his horns meet.

"Anything you need?" Cullen asks.

"More sleep?" Bull says, smiling into Cullen's palms.

"Anything I can give you?" He tilts Bull's head up to kiss him, light but lingering, the kiss as much a question as the words.

Bull leans into the kiss but doesn't try to make it more, and when he sets the mug down, it's just to pull Cullen in against his chest. Cullen is happy to let him, his face tucked into the crook of Bull's neck.

"What about you?" Bull asks, fingers curling around the back of Cullen's neck. His hand is warm from the mug, and Cullen sighs, pushing back into the pressure. "Have you slept?"

His thumb digs into the tense knot of muscles at the base of Cullen's skull, and Cullen tries not to make any embarrassing noises as the ache shoots through his teeth and down across his chest. This is a place where he could lose himself easily, let himself be nothing for a while.

"Cullen?" Bull prompts. "Have you slept?"

"A little." He should open his eyes, but it hardly seems worth the effort.

"Enough?"

Cullen huffs out a laugh. "Probably not, but it will have to do."

He waits for Bull to argue, or press the issue, but he doesn't. Instead, he works the tension from Cullen's neck with steady pressure, his hand flexing in time to Cullen's breathing, and Cullen lets himself drift. Partly for his own benefit, and partly for Bull's. Cullen knows him well enough by now to recognize his need to pay back some of what he feels he owes for earlier this morning. As if Cullen is keeping a ledger book to mark down the give and take of their relationship.

As if Bull was the only one who got something out of it.

Sleep is threatening again, warmth dragging him down, and Cullen heaves a sigh. They both have too many responsibilities to waste a morning doing nothing but this, no matter how much they want it. Still, nearly every moment of his life is dedicated to the Inquisition; he can take a few more without feeling as if he's stealing something.

 He eases himself out of Bull's grip, but only far enough to cup his face again. Bull's cheeks are rough with stubble--they're both desperately in need of a shave--and his lips are soft when Cullen kisses him. Another kiss that doesn't lead anywhere except back to this, to shared breath and a quiet space with just the two of them.

Cullen knows how to use his voice and his body to tell the lie Bull sometimes needs, to say, "You are nothing." Now he uses them to tell the truth, even if it's a truth neither of them says aloud: "You are everything."


End file.
